


The Winter Soldier: A Ghost Story

by WhereAnaWrites



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adult Content, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Domestic Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, Minor Violence, NSFW, Past Domestic Violence, Sad themes, Some Fluff, a cat named binks, christ this story sounds super dark, injuries, mentions of domestic abuse, mind twists, that goddamn muzzle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereAnaWrites/pseuds/WhereAnaWrites
Summary: Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a ghost story.So why does he keep coming back?





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is a new story I have been thinking about for months. Finally, I am able to start putting it all together. I will say, this story sound very dark, and some moments will be. I will add warnings as I see fit, since I don't want to give anything away. I will say, the domestic abuse is not to do with the Winter Soldier/Bucky. Most of it is mentioned in the past, and two brief scenes. 
> 
> Story takes place in the year 2012. Two years before Captain America: The Winter Soldier. 
> 
> Please give this story a chance.

Ophelia Phoenix becomes a part of a Ghost Story nobody is suppose to know about, and like a haunting spirit, he keeps coming back to her.


	2. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this part: Mild violence, mild blood, mild torture due to a wiping machine.

_Prelude:_

**March 10 th, 2012:**

Bloodcurdling screams echo throughout the cold, dark room. The raw sound a mixture of terror and agony, drowns out the noise of electricity through the air.

Shocked, horror filled eyes stare at the source in the middle of the room. Fingernails dig into the soft flesh of palms, drawing blood from broken skin. A deep sickening curl of nausea and devastating guilt crash through the core, through the heart. The screams reverberate throughout the bones of a wide-eyed Agent, rooting him to the spot. He swallows thickly, attempting to keep the stinging bile down as he continues to observe the mind wiping process of the Asset. The Soldier, they called him.

The paddles of the machine causing this gut-wrenching sound are pressed tightly over the Soldier’s head, covering half his face. The Soldier is strapped down to the chair, tensing and arching his back. Vaguely, the Agent wonders why the Soldier doesn’t break his metal arm free of the restraints and tear off the paddles. Then, the Agent realizes with another sickening wave, that the people in charge of this process, Hydra, shattered this man into submission.

And that’s what the Soldier is, down to his core. The Soldier is a  _human being_. How can they treat someone this inhumane? This horrible, as if he is nothing but a puppet on strings; meant to experiment on over and over. To break this man apart piece by piece.

Behind the Agent, just five feet from the chair, computers beep and whirl. Screens display numbers, frequency’s, a thermal image of the man, and monitoring vitals. Next to the computers is a large keyboard of different buttons and dials. The Agent’s fingers twitch for one dial in particular; he wants to  _help_  the Soldier.

“Won’t the high frequency of the electric-shocks damage his brain?” The Agent foolishly decides to voice.

It’s a mistake. The handle of a gun thrusts across his cheek. The Agent quickly covers his face with his hand, the feel of warm blood trickling down his cheek.

“There is no place for your concern here, Agent,” The muscular man standing next to him in a dark tee-shirt and army pants, snaps. “You are here to do one job. You know the consequences, if you should fail.”

He doesn’t elaborate. The Agent just nods in understanding, remaining silent as the screams finally stop. In the chair, the Soldier ceases screaming as the paddles release, moving away. The agent can see him twitch another man standing in front of the Soldier, a Handler the Agent has learned, recites words in Russian from a red journal. He continues to watch the process, noticing how the Soldier tries to steady himself with deep, short puffs of breath. The last word is spoken, only to be accompanied by another phrase. A greeting.

“Доброе утро, Солдат,” The Handler states.

 The Soldier gives a response, the first time he speaks since he was roughly dragged from his chamber.

“готовы соблюдать.”

His voice is calm, laced with the graveled tone from disuse. The Agent notices his head tilt down, a sign he takes as clear submission. The agent doesn’t see what happens after that, for he’s roughly forced back to the computer that controls the Memory Suppressing Machine.

“Full and total mind wipes, each and every time,” The pistol-whip happy man behind him instructs. “There is no room for error. If the Asset isn’t completely wiped, it starts to recall past experiences that cause it to lash out anyone within reach is either injured or killed. We do this to keep the Asset stable, for the safety of us and the focus of the Asset. If the Asset is not focused, the mission cannot be completed to its full extent. Then we can’t help the world with what it needs. Understood, Agent Bernstein?”

Agent Bernstein grits his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

“There have been a few past incidents when the Asset is confused. It has been known wonder away. Escape in a sense. At times the Asset might become self-aware. In those rare cases, the highest setting on the machine will suffice, and wiping will be repeated twice in row. More if necessary. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

With a final, stratified nod, the man holds his hand out in an unusual gesture of friendliness. 

“Welcome aboard. Hail Hydra!”

Agent Bernstein reluctantly shakes the calloused hand as he repeats the praise back. It burns bitterly on his tongue. He is lead from the computers and out of the room, but not before he gazes over to the Soldier. Icy dark eyes met his, observing him; like a predator stalking its prey. Bernstein’s heart drops to his feet, the vacant yet calculated stare of the Winter Soldier haunting him for the rest of the night.

***************************************************************************************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is a prelude, which I deemed very important to set this story up. Thank you for everyone already interested in this story. I am so excited about it now! 
> 
> As for the Russian translations, I try hard not to use translates but sometimes I do. The translations for “Ready to Comply” tends to be different. I got my translation straight from the source, my friend/coworker who is Russian and helped me with it. But if I happen to translate something wrong through this story, please feel free to let me know. 
> 
> I will warn you, this fic, is not like my others. It’s not as fluffy. Delicate Stages had it’s moments, but this one is so far away from what I have written beforehand. This is a lot darker. This is my first time fully writing the Winter Soldier, and what a terrifyingly beautiful, complex character he is. I do not have a set schedule for posting yet, and hopefully I will soon. 
> 
> Thank you again <3


	3. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-graphic domestic abused viewed from a distance. 
> 
> ***Important Note*** I said it before, but this story is a lot darker than anything I have ever wrote with the themes in it. Please proceed with caution during those moments, and I will try my best to tag everything correctly. I jumped right off the bat with this one. Everything in this story is a connection.

**March 11 th, 2012. 12:00am.**

**Washington D.C.**

 

The midnight air is quiet, calm, clouds in the sky eclipsing the moon snuffing out its pale lighting. Small puffs of breath are barely visible through the brisk air as a man inhales slowly and exhales steadily behind a protective mask covering most of his face. He shakes his long hair away from his sight, keeping his vision clear. Kneeling in the corner of a rooftop, he remains hidden in the shadows, sharp eyes surveying the area, noting the details around him.

He counts thirty apartments units with lights on. Warm fluorescent lights shining through the windows of the adjacent building, flooding onto the street below. The building next to it, once previously abandoned and used as the man’s hideout as he faintly recalls, now has seventeen windows lit. The lights of the newly occupied complex highlight the forty cars parked along the street. Infrequently, a car slowly drives by before disappearing around the corner.

Like a monster in the night, the man remains hidden, grateful for the lack of moonlight, for it gleams and reflects off the metal slates of his left arm. He was sent on a quest; track and report missions are mundane, stretching on for hours. The Asset, the Soldier as he is referred by, shifts lazily, pulling out the knife from his right thigh holster. He twirls it around his fingers languidly, something to do with his hands when he isn’t squeezing the trigger of his gun.

He is aware this mission is important, they all are, even the reconnaissance assignments. They are all part of a plan to give his home, Hydra, what they need to shape the world around them. Create the freedom the world craves, and to accomplish that ultimate mission, the Soldier must track his target.

 _Extract information that will take him down without harm,_ were the Soldiers instructions.Except the target doesn’t seem to be within the vicinity as he was informed. So, he waits, patiently.

A harsh breeze dances along of what’s exposed of his skin; his right hand, the top half of his face. He narrows his eyes, blinking twice to rid the abrupt dryness the wind brought. The cold isn’t an element that bothers him, however the snow flurries that begin to fall do. He finds them to be a nuisance, something that lessens the visibly of his missions. Despite it, he never fails to hit his targets when it snows.

However, winter has begun to shift into spring and the light snow falling from the sky is minimal. Flakes dance through the air before it hits the ground, melting away almost instantly. It doesn’t stop someone opening their window to step out onto the fire escape.

The Soldier details the person. An older woman clutching a mug in her hands. Not his target. The entrance door of the building opens, a man steps out with a black and white spotted dog on a leash. Not his target. Movement shifts shadows onto the street through another window. A family of five. Not his target.

The faintest noise catches his attentive ears, tilting his head a fraction towards the sound. A light brush, a quiet hiss against the bricks of the wall behind him. Calmly, he halts the twirling of his blade between his fingers, wrapping them around the hilt. He quickly jabs his arm out to his right, ready to sink the blade into the unfortunate soul who foolishly thought they could sneak up on him.

His body twists to follow his attack, only to come up short. There isn’t a body there. No flesh to harm, no delicate skin to pierce with the deadly blade. Instead, the sharp point of his knife is a centimeter away from a tiny dark nose. A feline. A cat. A black one at that, with piercing blue eyes which narrow briefly at him. He notices its entire front left leg is littered with scars and patches of fur missing.

The cat sniffs the blade before bowing its head and bumping it against the Soldiers tense knuckles. He blinks, lowering his weapon. With another faint recall of a distant memory like an itch in his brain, he knows this isn’t the first time a stray cat has found his hiding places. For unknown reasons, they seem to sniff out where he is, always curious and always seem to keep him company until he leaves. Or if there’s too much commotion, then they run away.

Releasing a low, irritated sigh, he replaces his knife back in the holster. He shuffles closer to the wall, away from the cat now cleaning its tail. He ignores the animal, going back to surveying the street below him. Several minutes later, a man rounds the corner from the west and walks up to the neighboring building his target is supposed to be located in. The Soldier watches keenly through the snow, as the man fiddles with the lock of the entrance door. Not his target. Just after the man enters, headlights flash and color the dark street, a car pulling up next to the building.

The Soldier straightens up, for the man who steps out of the door is none other than who he is waiting for. His target, his mission. He remembers the profile of the target they gave him; a man running for a high seat in the government. A man, his handlers had informed him, that is ultimately a threat to Hydra and their plans if elected. The man does nothing but lean against the car door of the passenger side, a glowing device in his hand; a phone. He seems to be waiting.

The Soldier idles as well. Waits and watches. Something smooth and furry brushes against his hand again, soft purrs filling the air. He grits his teeth, nudging the cat away from him. It takes him five times of this action for the animal to finally relent, turning with a flick of its tail to walk gracefully along the ledge of the rooftop. From the corner of his eye he sees the cat jump off the ledge.

Abruptly, the Soldier picks up on tense voices from the once vacant building, growing louder. An argument. The voices seem to catch the interest of his target as well, the man’s head popping up towards the sounds. Lazily, the Soldier shifts his gaze to the source, looking for a possible connection.

Despite his distance, he can see a man and a woman fighting. The argument is heated, mostly from man’s side. His arms gesture wildly as the woman steps back, but ultimately stands her ground. The man doesn’t tower over her, however the Soldier can see the bulk of muscles as the man flexes. He could easily overpower the woman if he wanted to. The man advances on the woman as the Soldier pulls his eyes away to assess his target.

The government official on the street has lit a cigarette, the stick dangling between his lips as he types something on the phone. The Soldier shifts closer, beginning to formulate a plan to extract the device. Another shout causes the Soldier’s eyes to flicker back to the apartment of their own accord, just in time to see the woman refusing to back down. Just in time to see the angered man raise his arm, his hand slicing through the air as the back of his hand strikes the woman’s face. The man’s other hand flies up to grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her close while yanking her head back. He says something quieter to her, before shoving her back forcefully. The woman’s side slams into the counter in their kitchen, her body staying hunched over the surface.

Something hot surges up within the Soldier’s chest, a snarl on his face beneath the mask. His shoulders tense, his body crouched in a position to attack. He startles himself, confused as to why he is poised to strike. Perplexed on why there’s a foreign twisting in his gut. His fingers are wrapped around the handle of the gun resting in the holster between his shoulder blades.

He shakes his head, clearing his mind as a sharp pain shoots through his brain. An echo of a voice he hasn’t heard in decades, is screaming in the distant confines of his mind. He frowns at himself, his chest tightening once more as he clenches his metal fist.

His mission is not the man in the building, but the man outside of it. He was sent to track and report the important government official. The Soldier tears his gaze away from the window once more, down to his target. During his momentarily lapse of focus, the man on the street has moved forty steps to the Soldier’s right, placing him in front of the second building. His target is peering up at the window six floors up, as if he is curious about the argument.

When the Soldier lifts his gaze once more to the same window, the man within advances with his fist raised again. Abruptly, the Soldier finds himself ripping his sniper riffle free, cocking and aiming it at the window. He stops short, uncurling his finger from the trigger. This is not his target. Eliminating the man in the apartment is not his mission. This woman is not of importance to Hydra, she is not his handlers to protect. He lowers the gun.

The Soldier jerks his head again, wincing at the pain throbbing at his temples. He needs to refocus, stay sharp, keep his eyes on the target below. However, the woman abruptly turns, pushing herself up from the counter and thrusting her elbow into the man’s nose. She seems to aim a kick to his groin but misses as the man stumbles. Her foot connects with his lower stomach instead.

It’s enough for her to move away, running into the kitchen to grab a frying pan from the counter. She brandishes it in front of her like a weapon; like a shield. For the man is now pointing a knife at her. The woman grows utterly still.

Below him, another voice catches his ears. His target. This man on the street he is supposed to be surveying. The target is now grumbling into his phone, tossing the cigarette as he walks away from the building. The Soldier doesn’t hear the signs of a stab wound victim, so he briefly looks back to the woman. The man inside has his knife still poised at the woman as he speaks. The woman nods in compliance. The Solider clenches his teeth.

She slowly parts her hands, holding them up in surrender. Her body language changes, becomes submissive with the threat as she lowers her hands. This seems to please the man, as he closes the distance between them. He still holds the weapon, though he no longer points the blade at the woman. He gently caresses her neck, a disadvantage made on his part. With the easy submission of the girl, the man began to lower his knife, letting his guard down. A clear mistake committed by someone who isn’t trained lethally like the Soldier is.

The Soldier spectates, almost in strange curiosity, as the women raises the frying pan once more. With what looks like a practiced move, she swings the pan across her body, making contact with the man’s fist. The weapon is disarmed, flying across the room as he howls in pain. She’s too quick for him to retaliate, for she brings all her force down with the pan, smacking it on top of the man’s head. He falls to the ground, out of sight of the Soldier.

This woman is smart, the Soldier gives her credit for that. She picks up the knife, pointing it at the man she as she drops the pan. She cautiously moves around the counter, keeping her eyes locked on the man as she reaches for something. A phone.

Below on the ground, the creaking of a door opening catches the Soldier attention. He tears his eyes away from the window, gritting his teeth in anger at the woman in the building for distracting him again. He looks just in time to see a different woman exit the other building to greet his target. He assesses the new person, detailing the blonde hair, the youthfulness of her face, giving away that she isn’t a child, but is isn’t the same age as the woman in the window.

_Extract information that will take him down without harm._

This younger woman is not his target’s wife. The Soldier doesn’t believe it is much to go on, but he is not to question the mission orders he is given. He continues to watch as they greet each other, a light press of lips to the others. His target says something to the young woman as they separate, turning his back to type something on his own phone.

The Soldier resists and finally keeps his gaze away from the woman in the window, slowly replacing his own weapon back in the holster. He begins to formulate a plan to extract the information hidden on the phone that his target deems important.

Only a few minutes pass before the faint wail of sirens cut through the cold air. The target visibly stiffens. He quickly grabs the young woman’s arm, yanking her over to the door of the car and carefully pushes her inside. The man rushes to the drivers side, getting in and starting up the engine. They drive off quickly, tires screeching down the street before disappearing around the corner. The Soldier makes to follow, but he finds his feet glued to his spot on the roof.

As if his eyes are no longer in control, they shift back to the building once more. He blinks. The cat that was bothering him earlier in now on the balcony of the fire escape outside the window. Sharp, zinging pains have been shooting through his head since he observed the scene, and he has a strange burning desire to know why.

The cat is pawing at the window, begging to be let in from the cold as the snow continues to fall. The woman doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes still locked on her attacker. The Soldier remains in the shadows as he sees the authorities enter the building. He has seen enough, deciding to leave before his position is compromised. The woman has survived the attack.

As the Soldier heads towards the location where he concealed his motorcycle, he realizes the tightening in his chest has dissipated. He doesn’t understand why or what happened, so he presses his metal fingers hard into his temple until the pain shooting through his skull fades away. He shakes his head to rid the ever-confusing clouds muddling in his brain. He ignores it, reviving up the engine, because the woman was not his mission tonight. Killing the man who attacked the woman was not his mission.

His mission is to track and report his target. Extract if possible. He failed the last part of the mission. Which ultimately means he has failed the entire mission.

When he arrives back to the base, he is led by other agents, handing his weapons off to them. He vaguely hears what the people around him are saying, his mind still a confused fog. He doesn’t understand how he failed to extract information. He will accept the physical punishment they will give him.

As he is lead into the chair, checked over for injuries and his vitals recorded, the Soldier comes to a conclusion. What he felt in his gut, in his chest, was dangerously close to an emotion he hasn’t felt yet, or rather, can’t remember feeling. He believes the foreign emotion to be concern. Concern for a woman he viewed from a distance.

One that distracted him, caused hot coils to constrict around him. Ultimately caused him to lose track of his target; concerned and angered by the distraction. However, the image burns behind his eyes. The imagine of a smaller, weaker person, standing up to their assailant. It causes that faint itch in the back of his brain to arise again.

This is not something he voices to his handlers even if he were allowed to. This is not something that needs to be comprehended. Displaying concern is weakness. From what he can remember in the black holes of his memory, he has been punished for that. Severely. Showing those types of emotions are weak.

The Winter Soldier is not weak.

 

*************************************************************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Ophelia Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mention of abuse
> 
> ***Important Note*** I said it before, but this story is a lot darker than anything I have ever wrote with the themes in it. Please proceed with caution during those moments, and I will try my best to tag everything correctly. Everything in this story is a connection.

  **March 15 th, 2012 8:00am**

Sharp clicking of heels snap against the tiles echoing throughout he hallway, determined steps skillfully weaving in and out of the foot traffic through the building. Half the people seem to be rushing, the other half seem to be taking their time as either a meeting was cancelled or one of the officials called in sick. Or maybe half of the chaos in the halls is due to the very expensive, very broken fancy espresso machine.

Ophelia Phoenix flashes her ID badge when she reaches a set of locked double doors on the east end of the building. She smiles in greeting at the guard stationed at the desk, as she raises her cup of coffee at Ophelia, nodding her approval. The guard, Patricia, who also does body building competitions outside of work, smirks at her glare.

“Where did you get that, Mrs. Patricia?” Ophelia questions suspiciously, holding the door open after Patricia buzzes her in.

“Get here early enough before the machine breaks,” She simply replies, shrugging.

Ophelia laughs. She waves as she passes through the doors, greeting the faces she has come to recognize over the years working here. The skinny heels of her boots click louder as the hallway narrows, leading to a set of stairs. She descends the fifteen steps before reaching another locked door. She swipes her ID badge through the lock, pushing the doors open as it buzzes. She’s immediately met with a stern voice.

“You’re late, Fawkes.”

Ophelia ignores the man in favor of hopping up on his desk surface. She purposefully kicks his rolling chair away so he accidentally clicks on a bomb in the game he’s playing. She laughs brightly as he grumbles, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pencil skirt.

“Is the Harry Potter _Fawkes_ nickname never going to drop with you, Mr. Hines?” She questions, crossing her legs. “Also, who plays mind-sweep anymore?”

“I do,” He states proudly, “when executives assistants aren’t wasting their time coming down here to bother me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, Carter, if I wanted to waste my time, I’d explain how to hack into Netflix to the interns who ask.”

“They ask you to hack into Netflix as a whole?” Carter questions, barely containing his laugh.

“I overheard them. They don’t exactly know that I accidentally did it once.”

“ _Accidentally_.”

Ophelia steals his coffee mug in retaliation. She takes a good, long sip, before loudly exaggerating her satisfied  _ahhh_. Someone calls a good morning to her as she hands Carter back his mug, ignoring his glare. She waves at the few workers there before they get back to their tasks.

“You look tired, again. Meeting get cancelled this morning?” Carter inquires, bringing her attention back to him.

“At the last minute,” She sighs, pulling out her work smartphone. She checks for any messages before tucking it in pocket once more. “There was a bit of food poisoning that went around the international office. They thought it best to reschedule.”

“That’s unfortunately. Hey!” Carter’s tone changes from sympathetic to excited. “I’ve been working on a new system for the security protocols here, but there’s this tough firewall I can’t seem to get pass.”

Ophelia hums thoughtfully, crossing her arms in an attempt to cover how tense her muscle became. She internally winces at the throbbing pain in her side the movement caused. She bites the inside of her cheek briefly, inhaling slowly.

“Sounds like something Walsh could help you with,” She supplies, nodding her head to where Carter’s coworker is. “He’s great at firewalls.”

She notices the slight twitch of Carter’s jaw. “True,” He drawls out. “But he isn’t as good as-“

A rather insistent buzzing interrupts his words. Ophelia pulls out the phone from her blazer pocket, glancing at the screen. The vibrations halt when she taps her finger against the glass, a reminder she set up the night before.

“I have to cut this short. I’ve got a presentation to review before the next meeting at ten,” She informs him. She carefully slips off the table, and as she’s adjusts her skirt, Carter speaks.

“Could you maybe take a look at the coding for the-“ He begins.

“Sorry, I don’t know how to decode firewalls,” She cuts him off smoothly, sticking her phone back into her pocket.

“Mmmhmm,” He hums sarcastically under his breath.

Ophelia puffs out a breath, plastering on a bright smile. “I’m sorry I can’t help you with the coding. I’m sure one of the many talented people down here can though. I’ll see you later.”

Carter sighs. “Lunch? Jeremy is meeting me.”

As she’s walking towards the door she gives him an answer. “I wish I could, but we’re booked with meetings until two. Tell him I said hi, and happy anniversary to you both!”

Carter watches as Ophelia exits the floor, until he sees her black boots disappear up the stairs. Begrudgingly, he focuses on the screen in front of him, closing out the mind-sweep game to bring up the program he’s working on.

“Best goddamn coder in the building and she pretends she can’t do it,” He mutters bitterly. With a resigned sigh, Carter calls his co-worker over instead.

***

When Ophelia reached the floor of her office, she releases a small sigh of relief. She has avoided the subject of coding once again, knowing herself it’s something she was never good at. She feels bad for evading Carter, but she is perfectly happy with her job now. Implying for her help with a firewall could end badly for the system if she tried. The computers might catch on fire, the government might shut down for the day. Bad things.

She’s good at the job she has now; great in fact. She organizes, sets up meetings and events, makes plans, cancel plans, types out and proof reads official letters. Helps develop communication policies and programs. She screens calls when she is asked and takes notes in meetings for future references. She even has sit downs with her boss to talk about certain future plans. He seems to respect her opinion and voice.

Proof reading the presentation took an hour, finding very minimal typos and a distorted imaged here and there. She quickly fixes it, took out the flash drive, and heads toward the office where her boss is. The full floor to ceiling windows of the room offers a clear view of anyone inside, and the city line stretching out behind the desk is beautiful.

Her boss is currently in the office, phone glued to his ears. She doesn’t want to disturb him, so she uses her ID badge to unlock the door, granting access. He spots her coming in, waving and offering her a friendly smile. She politely nods her head in silence as she enters heading over to his computer with approval after she holds up the drive. Inserting the drive to the computer, she and uploads the new newly edited presentation. Ophelia spots a file with her name on it next to the keyboard. As the file loads, she slides the manila folder, a scribbled note stuck on the front.

_Ms. Phoenix, communication policies need to be proof read please. I forgot to do it myself._

She chuckles at the last sentence, taking the file and tucking it under her arm. As she stands, she catches her boss’ attention once more, pointing at her watch. He looks at his own while listening to whoever is on the other side of the phone. Once he nods, Ophelia bids her goodbye and heads back to her own office, just three rooms down. The rest of her day is spent proof reading the policies.

***

After five flights of stairs in four-inch heels, Ophelia’s calves are burning. She still hasn’t gotten used to the walk up since moving into the newly renovated building. She grumbles under her breath as she reaches her door, pausing to catch her breath, but she knows her panting isn’t solely from the stairs. She hasn’t been sleeping well for the past four nights, paired with her long working hours and the lack of a proper meals during the day. Her body is begging for a break; a bottle of wine, a bath, maybe a pizza.

For a moment, Ophelia presses her forehead against her door, longing for her old apartment back. It had a bay window, was on the first floor, and a bigger balcony. It was a bit further from work, but the commute wasn’t too bad. She had to move out hastily, and her current place was available and affordable and offered a little more protection with the locked lobby doors.

“Yeah right,” She mutters to herself.

Protection. What a great allusion. At least she has a bigger open kitchen, a larger bath tub and a fire escape. With another heavy, exhausted sigh, Ophelia slides her apartment key into the first dead blot lock, turns it, then takes it out to grab the second key. She repeats the action with the second lock, finally pushing open her door. She hits the light switch after locking her door, tossing her keys on the entry table and sheds her coat and hanging it on the hooks.

She welcomes the warmth of her cozy home, brushing her fingers along the patches of exposed bricks on the wall. She tosses her purse on the kitchen counter, immediately grabbing a wine glass from the cabinet and the half empty bottle of Cabernet. She pours herself a generous amount before she bends over to unzip her boots, pulling them off. She leaves them in the kitchen, promising herself she’d get them later.

Right now she really just wants to soak in a bubbly bath, sipping her red and relaxing the day away. Meetings and proof-reading communication policies can do a number on her lower back, and shoulders. She turns on the faucet of her tub when she enters her bathroom, allowing the water to warm up from the cold pipes before she plugs it up. Setting her glass on the counter, she carefully shrugs off her blazer.

The movement causes a dull throb at her side as she drops the clothing. She pulls out her tucked blouse, lifting it over and off her body, letting it join the floor as well. Ophelia stares at herself in the mirror, her jaw shifting as she grinds her teeth for a moment, before she drops her gaze.

Just under her nude bra on her right ribs, is a mosaic of sickly yellowish-green skin, surrounded by fading lilac. She slowly lifts her right arm, gently prodding her left fingers around the area. It’s still tender and swollen to the touch, not expecting anything less from bruised bones. At least none of them were cracked…this time around. She releases an abrupt hiss through her teeth when she accidentally presses too hard, dropping her hand away. She ignores the bruise for now, opting to dig out the packet of makeup wipes from the drawer.

Ophelia begins wiping off her makeup, being careful as she swipes over the small cut at the left corner of her mouth and the faint bruising below her cheek. She pokes at the small cut by her lip, thankful no one noticed it. She throws the wipe away after she’s done, staring at herself in the mirror once more.

The green of her irises doesn’t hold their usual brightness, haven’t for the past four days. She’s just tired. Tired and annoyed that he found her, forced himself into her home just to end up attacking her. He pulled a goddamn knife on her, as if that would make her change her mind and take him back after two years. What an idiot.

She blinks away the stinging in her eyes, refusing to cry over it. Her ex doesn’t deserve her tears, and hasn’t for years. This was just a fluke, a strange event that happened, and now it’s over and done with. He’s locked up, with a restraining order for the future. She changed her locks, she’s enrolled in self defense classes, she has a can of bear maze in her purse. She has a baseball bat by her bed, that surprising but trusty frying pan in her kitchen and she’s working on getting a conceal to carry license. She can and will protect herself. She’s safe. Ophelia ignores the part of her that doesn’t believe it.

Shaking her head to rid the thoughts and the now recent pass, she strips herself naked the rest of the way. As she sinks into the hot water, glass of wine placed on the ledge, she thumbs over her inner right forearm just below her elbow. The cluster of freckles there are tattooed to look like a constellation of stars. Tracing the tattoo grounds her, a small repetitive motion that tends to keep her anxiety at bay.

Touching the tattoos inked into her skin on different parts of her body do the same. It’s just a little something that reminds her she’s stronger than she was years ago. She brushes her fingers over the little dove sketched on her back left shoulder, over what she can reach of the words elegantly placed along her spine.

Ophelia exhales a long breath, finally feeling at ease. When she’s finished with her bath, showering quickly afterwards, she wraps a large fluffy towel around her body. She dries herself then grabs her pj’s from her dresser, a black camisole top, loose gray sweatpants and fuzzy socks. She searches for bruise cream in the first aid kit her sister gave her (one she made herself and insisted to Ophelia that it would come in handy) and proceeds to gingerly rub the cream over her ribs and cheek.

Finally, she settles into bed, hoping that her body is exhausted enough to finally sleep properly. Her eyes flutter shut as she curls into a position that doesn’t bother her ribs. She’s drifting off into the quiet night, until a noise kickstarts her heart. Her eyes snap open as she listens carefully, the noise coming from the window.

Then, the smallest mewl echoes from outside. Whoops. Ophelia chuckles to herself as she sits up and gets out of bed. Her window is two feet from her bed, but it’s easier to unlock and slide it up if she stands. The cat that was scratching at the glass saunters in, glaring up at her with ice blue eyes, tail flicking in annoyance.

“Sorry, Mr. Binks,” Ophelia whispers, scratching her nails behind the cat’s ear. “This is the second time I forgot. I bet it’s too cold for you out there, huh?”

The cat, Binks, seems to forgive her, nudging his nose against her palm, soft purrs beginning to fill the room. Ophelia gently picks him up, cradling him to her chest. She presses her face into his silky black fur, petting soothingly over his scarred left leg.

“I promise to give you extra treats in the morning.”

Binks meows brightly as Ophelia gets back in bed. She allows the cat to escape her arms while she pulls her duvet back up, sinking down into her mattress. Binks decides to curl up right next to her head, his purrs lulling her into a deep sleep.

***********************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took forever. Life got crazy stressful, then the holiday came up and I'm in a wedding that's happening in three weeks, so I'll be gone for several days. This is a sper short chapter, but important.  
> I hope you enjoy.

**March 16th, 2012 6:00am**

Ophelia wakes to frost on her window and a throbbing ache in her side. She groans pitifully, cursing her sleeping self for rolling over and staying on her bruised side. Maybe she’ll call Saige to see if she has any pain killers to ease the bruise. Of course, then she would have to explain to her sister why she needs them in the first place, and opening that can of long buried worms will not be fun.

She rolls onto her back carefully. Just as she’s contemplating calling into work and staying in her warm cozy bed, then cat pounces on her out of thin air. She groans as he landed on her injured side and chest, paws digging into the bruise and her cleavage. Binks chirps shortly, clearly irate at the lack of food. He flops down on her chest, belly up beneath her chin.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” She grumbles, patting his belly. Binks’ response is to bite her wrist. “Okay, demanding diva.”

After she gets up and feeds her  _starving_  cat, she’s dressed and ready for work by seven forty-five. The frost on the windows don’t give way to snow like it did several nights before, and for that she’s thankful. The winter lasted a bit longer this time around, and as much as she loves the snow, she’s ready for Spring. Especially when Ophelia slips on a patch of frozen ground just as she’s about to enter the work building.

She catches herself on the handle of the door, the quick movement tweaking her ribs. She rolls her eyes because if she doesn’t stop doing these little abrupt movements, the healing will just be prolonged. Slow clapping comes from behind her as she straightens up, shooting an unimpressed look over her shoulder.

“Graceful. I thought you were the master at heels and ice,” Carter quips, a playful smirk on his mouth.

“Tell me how you met your husband, again?” She counters, yanking the door open to cautiously step inside. She doesn’t hold it open for him.

Carter huffs as he enters himself. “I don’t recall.”

Ophelia hums thoughtfully. “Wasn’t it a snowy, iced filled day, and you just couldn’t take your eyes off this handsome man, so you stepped in slush, slipped and busted your ass in front of him?”

He clears his throat as he follows her down the hall to the coffee kiosk. “Your point?”

“It was just a very kultzy meet-cute is all,” She smiles brightly as they get in line.

“Well, now we’re married so, he must’ve seen something in me.”

She chuckles while patting his shoulder. “That he did.”

**8

Two hours into the work day, and Ophelia is only a quarter of the way through proof reading those policies. She welcomes the break when the intercom on her desk phone beeps.

“Ophelia, do you mind running those files of the International Waters Piracy reports over to me?”

“Not at all, sir,” She responds, quickly slipping her feet back into her maroon pumps. “Did you want the Defense protocols as well?”

“Please. The afternoon meeting got pushed up, starts in ten minutes.”

Pausing her search through the filing cabinet, she says, “I wasn’t informed, sir. I’m sorry-“

“Nonsense, I was just informed about it.”

“In that case, shall I scan them and send them or the hard copies will do?”

“Hard copies, thank you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Once she finds and gathers the files, Ophelia saves the proof reads she uploaded to her computer and exits her office. She makes her way over to the conference room where the meetings are usually held, placing the flies on the long table, sliding them over to where her boss is sitting. He glances up from his phone, greeting her with a nod.

“Did you have a good weekend? As I haven’t gotten a chance to ask you yesterday,” He inquires lightly, dragging the folders over.

She can’t help the way her spine tenses just a little but she’s careful to keep her expression calm. “Yes,” she answers a little belatedly. “It was boring really. Just hung out with my cat. Exciting stuff. How about yours, sir?”

He hums distractedly for a moment as he looks over the files. “Good, very good. You know, Daniel came home this weekend. If I would’ve known you were just sitting there alone, I would’ve suggested you come over for dinner.”

“Sir,” Ophelia begins kindly, “I would have appreciated the offer. However, Deb- your wife, always seems to get a little-“ She breaks off, waving her hand in the air.

“Reminiscent?” He finishes with a smirk, “I know. You know how Debora is though. She adored both of you together.”

Ophelia mentally winces. The past relationship she had with her boss’s son gets brought up every once in a while. Her and Daniel dated their last two years of high school, into their first two years of college, before realizing that their relationship was more along the lines of best friends during that last year. Nothing explicit happened; no cheating, no lying or explosive fight. It just fizzled out towards the end and they came to the same conclusion, talked it about and agreed to break up. It was mutual, it was the least painful breakup she has ever had.

Daniel’s mother was sure they would get married. Ophelia couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on her face anymore when she still invited over for dinners. Eventually, even after Daniel convince Ophelia that it was alright, and his mom would stop asking when they would get back together, she stopped going to those dinners.

However, he was her first love and it did last four years, and although they remained good friends, they still hold a soft spot in each other’s hearts. It never extends into romance again, no drunken nights of “ _I miss you, just one more time_ ”, nothing like that ever happened. The one night when they did get wasted, it was filled with Daniel  _gushing_  about the girl in his Foreign Affairs class. Last Ophelia heard was that Daniel and that girl were still dating, and Ophelia hasn’t seen him in almost a year.

“I know, sir. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out, I guess. She knows we’re still good friends though.”

“I think she’s holding onto the hope of a reunion. I, on the other hand, know when to take a loss.”

Ophelia laughs, taking that as an out to change the subject. “All the files are in order from date and relevance. I’m stilling proofing those policies but if you need anything else, just let me know. Shall I order lunch for the meeting?

“That would be wonderful, if you don’t mind.” He responds with gratitude, opening the first file. “Thank you, Ms. Phoenix. You are a valuable asset here.”

She smiles proudly. “Thank you, sir.” She’s about to turn away, when she remembers something. 

“Oh, before I forget, the new letterheads that were ordered came in. Whoever filled in for me when I was out didn’t bother to check if the correct official seal or spelling was used. The label was distorted and there was a typo in your name.” Ophelia rubs her lips together to contain the small bubble of a giggle in her throat.

“How bad?”

“Well, I was only gone for a week, but I’m sure an Alexandra Price didn’t suddenly take over as the U.S. Secretary of Defence. Spelled, D-E-F-E-N-C-E.”

He releases a heavy sigh before a goodhearted smile flashes on his face. “See, this is what happens when you go on vacation, Ophelia.”

Ophelia chuckles at that, pulling out the first page in the second file to tap the seal. “I assure you it’s all fixed. Alexander Pierce, U.S. Secretary of De _fense_ , clear seal and all.”

“I knew there’s a reason I’ve kept you around.”

“That, and I know all your secrets,” She jokes, turning and waving as she exits the conference room. She misses the slow smirk spreading across his lips as the door closes.

“Of that, you don’t, Ms. Phoenix.”

 

*************************************************************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3  
> I hope everyone had a happy holidays (or happy days in general) and had a fun and safe new year's eve!  
> I promise more is to come and longer chapters as well.  
> Thank you for being patient with me.


	6. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild violence, blood, language

Ophelia is rushing down the hallway, double checking that all the pages are together in the leather case folder that Pierce asked her to bring as requested by one of the Councilmen. She’s half way there when her shoulder slams into something solid. The three folders tumble out of her arms before she can stop them, physically wincing at the sharp pain the impact caused in her bruised ribs.

“Well now, if those weren’t held with metal clips that could’ve been a disaster.”

Ophelia’s eyes snap up, knowing the voice as soon as they spoke. Her gaze lands on a clean-shaven handsome face with a chiseled chin, sharp jaw and an amused expression aimed at her. His blonde hair is trimmed neatly, short to his head, and his dark blue eyes are as friendly as ever.

“Daniel!” Ophelia chirps, a surprised smile on her face.

Daniel Pierce smiles brightly at her, bending over to pick up the fallen folders. He gathers them quickly before holding them up for her to take. He opens his mouth to speak when she halts him.

“Wait, give me a moment,” She tells him, taking the folders, “and thanks!”

She turns, leaving his mouth half open in an unformed sentence. Continuing down the hall, she makes it to the room without anymore interruptions. She quietly opens the door as someone is in the middle of speaking, carefully sliding the folders on the table over to her boss. Ten sets of eyes of the World’s Security Council glance at her, so she waves briefly, accepting their nods or waves back.

Then she backs out of the room while making sure the door stays silent. She turns so her back is to the glass, releasing a slow exhale. Now that she’s delivered the folders, the small spike of adrenaline is dying down and the dull aching in her ribs makes itself knows. She briefly touches her left hand to the area, gently rubbing her fingers over it as if that will soothe the injury.

Daniel. Right. Ophelia snaps back to it, ignoring the twinge of pain; a feat not foreign to her. As she approaches the son of her boss, also known as her ex, she glares at him. He has knowing smile on his lips, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

“What’s that look for?” She inquires, hands on her hips.

“Good to see your perception of work hasn’t changed,” He quips, “Always so precise and on time.”

“It’s what got me this position in the first place. That, and apparently someone put in a good word after they found out that I applied.”

Daniel laughs, mouth wide open. “We both know you got this job all on your own,  _Affie_.”

Ophelia leans forward to lightly smack his bicep as she looks around frantically. “Mark Daniel Pierce, don’t you dare call me that!” She scolds in a hushed voice. “No one knows that nickname except my sister!”

Pouting with an over exaggerated lip, he rubs his arm. “You just used my full name.”

“Because you compromised private, embarrassing information.”

“You’re so dramatic,” He chuckles, finally breaking his frown.

“Me? You’re rubbing your arm like a hit you with a bat,” She begins to walk past him. “Let’s go into my office.”

“So official.”

“You’re in town for two seconds and the teasing is through the roof.”

“It’s been a year, I have to annoy you somehow.”

Ophelia rolls her eyes fondly, opening the door of her office for him. Daniel plops down on the chair in front of her desk as she sits behind her computer, wincing just slightly when her ribs jab with pain. She quickly answers an email that popped up on her screen, then gives her full attention to the man she hasn’t seen in a year.

“So,” She begins, leaning back in her chair, “What brings you to town?”

Daniel’s eyes light up at her question, sitting up straighter. “I’m engaged.”

“What!?” Ophelia snaps herself forward, a smile growing across her face. “Daniel, congratulations!”

He shrugs, a small blush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah, thanks, Elia. I’m just- she’s amazing, and I can’t believe she said yes. I came back to tell my parents. Well, I haven’t told them yet.”

“Why not?” She frowns in confusion.

“Alexis couldn’t get off work, so she’s coming in Friday afternoon,” He explains, pulling out his phone and handing the device to her.

Taking the phone, she enlarges the picture he displayed. “Well, damn,” She chuckles, staring at the decent sized ring. “I wouldn’t say no to that either.”

Daniel laughs heartily, accepting his phone when she hands it back. “Thanks. We’re telling them Friday at dinner. But I was wondering if you’re busy Saturday? Maybe three of us could do lunch? I’d love for you to meet her.”

“I’ve met her, Daniel,” Ophelia chuckles, genuinely happy for her giddy friend.

“Yeah, but it’s been years and you haven’t met my  _fiancé_ ,” When he says the word, the softest expression on his face.

“Of course. I’d love to meet your  _fiancé_. Just give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”

“Great!” Daniel stands up, prompting her to do the same. “I’ll let you get back to work, I just stopped by to give something my dad forgot at home.”

Ophelia gives him a quick parting hug, flinching just slightly at the pain in her ribs. “Alright, tell your mom I said hi, and I’ll see you Saturday.”

Daniel nods, walking towards the door. He stops to turn around, a bright smile on his lips. “I’m so excited to get married.”

“I’m excited for you! Now go, before you get me fired,” She playfully shoos him away.

He cackles as he exits her office.

 

**March 18 th, 2012 9:30pm**

The night is brisk, although one might not remember with the warmth of the vault a half mile beneath the bank. Sweat prickles at Agent Bernstein’s temple, a drop running down his cheek as using the sleeve of his gray lab coat to wipe it away. He has been fixing the slight electrical malfunction of the computer’s hard drive, tinkering with a faulty wire, for the past hour. He works cautiously but with precision, knowing the ever presence of threats hanging over his head should he fail.

When he has tampered with the wire, glancing over once his shoulder for prying eyes, Agent Bernstein crawls out from under the table. Switching on the computers and electrical system, he hears the gentle sound of machines coming to life. He’s alone in this certain room, the one he dubbed as the  _psychiatric torture chamber_ , allowing him the privacy to work. He knows the other agents are preparing to receive instructions for the next mission, which means the Asset will be arriving soon.

After he scans his fingerprint to unlock the computer, he pulls up the data functions of the chair itself. All looks correct, as does the system meant to digitally read vitals, and the digital scan of the Asset’s brain. He keeps the vital scan up on the display screen, moving over to the control switchboard for the chair. Agent Bernstein tests the main dial, the cracking and whirling of electrical noises signal the chair powering on. He turns the dial up halfway, wishing he had a body to test it on; maybe that one agent who seems to abuse the Asset for no reason. He smirks down at the dial, listening carefully to the unmatched surge of power. He had no idea if what he just did will work, only time will tell.

“Bernstein!” Barks a sharp voice.

He startles, quickly turning the dial down until it shuts off. He turns to face the voice, the man who recruited him is flanked by a team of men in black clothing, and bullet proof vests. They’re armed with semi-automatic guns, held idly in their hands but, thankfully, not aimed at him.

“Sir,” Agent Bernstein responds steadily.

“Is the system functioning properly?”

“Yes, sir. It’s ready.”

“Good.” The man nods, turning to the agent on his right. “Bring the Asset.”

Agent Bernstein keeps his slight relief to himself, turning back to the computer in front of him. The doctors in charge of monitoring the Asset’s brain activity and scans enter the room, quickly getting to work on either side of him. He keeps his eyes on the screen, bringing up a data box to monitor the chair’s system. He hears the heavy footsteps of boots enter the room a few minutes later, along with the scraping of another set of shoes.  _As if they’re dragging him_. Bernstein inhales and exhales slowly, trying to keep his heart calm.

Soon the screams will start.

Bernstein reluctantly turns to face the chair; the Asset, the Soldier, already strapped down. One of the doctors leaves his post to push a rubber guard into the Soldier’s mouth. Bernstein has noticed the mouth piece before, sometimes they give it to the poor man, other times they leave him to bite down on his tongue. Those are the times when Bernstein is forced to clean the blood away from the Soldier’s chin.

He catches the eye of the doctor, nodding his head. Ignoring the sickening curl in his chest, Agent Bernstein clicks the system control panel on the screen. The chair buzzes to life, the extra restraints  snapping into place against the Soldier’s body, his breath coming out in short panicked huffs of air. Bernstein slowly turns the dial up, the paddles of the machine crackling with electrical current. He hopes his tampering works.

The clenched screaming begins.

It’s hard to ignore the sounds, the horrible noises that will echo in his chest for the rest of his life. However, Agent Bernstein is distracted by the agent pulling out a small, dirty red journal he didn’t notice the last time. A solid black star is imprinted on the front, matching the red star on the Soldier’s left arm. The agent cracks the book open, easily falling to a page previously marked.

As the man begins to recite words in Russian, Agent Bernstein discreetly turns down the dial.

“желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Finally, the clamps of the machine release from the man, moving back into their original position. Bernstein swallows the thick lump forming in his throat, pulling his gaze away from the Soldier’s twitching head.

“Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон.” There’s a short pause. “добро пожаловать обратно, солдат.” ( _Welcome back, Soldier_ )

Agent Bernstein can’t keep his eyes from slipping back to the scene in front of him. The man in the chair takes a short breath. Then his shoulders drop into submission, his head tilts forward just slightly. His body, dressed in a dark gray thermal vest and matching pants, remains clam. His dark hair is stringy, slightly dripping droplets of water onto his shoulder.

“готовы соблюдать.”

When the Soldier speaks, his voice is low, rough from being locked away for a few days. Bernstein still isn’t sure how exactly the man is locked up or kept, since the people he works for haven’t given him access to that certain area. Agent Bernstein hadn’t noticed the new presence in the room as the Soldier was being tortured into submission once again. When he does, his heart rate speeds up, but he grits his teeth to remain silent and ignores the sting of bile churning in his stomach.

Alexander Pierce takes the few steps needed to stand in front of the Asset.

“New mission, Soldier,” He informs him with a steady, poised voice. He has a manila folder in his hand, slipping out a photo, holding it up. “This man is a traitor to Hydra. He obtains valuable information that could compromise our plan to help the world. If he is successful in trading that information, we can’t continue to give what mankind needs. What the world needs. Eliminated him.”

 

**March 18 th, 2012 11:00pm**

Nightfall brings the last lingering round of winter. It holds onto the plants with its icy fingers, not relenting to the life of Spring just yet. Snow is absent from the dark sky, a silence through the night except for one lone faint breath. The quiet draw of an inhale, the soft hiss of an exhale, then, a light crinkle of a withered paged book.

The man lounging in the chair with a novel held in his hands fleeting wonders if he should light the idle wood in the fireplace. Just one last cackling warmth before the weather turns warm; chase away the lingering scent of winter.

Shifting, the man adjusts his book, eyes staring at the page in front of him, but not reading. He listens, carefully, with ears attuned to the tiniest sound. Waiting. A hard metal object digs into the side of his thigh, slowly dropping his right hand to place his fingers over it. Waiting.

Inhale. He hears nothing. Exhale. Nothing.

Inhale. Exhales. Nothing.

Inhale. Something shifts in the air. He lifts his eyes from the book, trying his best to remain clam, keep his heartbeat down. Fear can be pungent. Noticeable. It can make the skin prickle, make blood run cold, and Winter just found him.

He slowly lowers the book, eyes locked on the shadows of the far corner of the room. His hand tightens around the metal object, index finger quietly slipping over a trigger. He had waited for this moment. He had known this moment would come, that his past, his betrayal in their eyes would catch up to him. No one is safe from the monster; cut one head off, another takes its place.

He is one of those doomed heads. Death has come for him, but he refuses to go as quiet as the night.

“Я ждал тебя, Зимний Солдат _,_ ” The man declares in his native Russian tongue with a low, gruffy voice. “Зима ищет моей смерти. ( _I have been expecting you, Winter Soldier. Winter seeks my death.)_

The man knew this day would come, that his time was running out. The Winter Soldier remains silent in the shadows, the halo of light from the street lamps is the only source illuminating a strip of gold over his metal appended. The red Soviet star standing is contract against it. A blood red reminder; no one gets out alive.

Setting the novel down on the side table, the man begins to stand, as the Soldier’s cold gaze follow his move. As expected, the Soldier wears the mask they gifted him, the one that silences the shell of the Asset. The hard plastic being the object that will keep this night a secret forever, lost in another burned file of the dead. Of the betrayers.

The man tightens his grip on the gun in his hand. The Soldier’s eyes flicker to the movement. He has yet to draw any of his own weapons from the plethora of options strapped to his person. The man swallows, feeling sweat begin to bead down his neck.

“Я уверен, вы понимаете. Я не пойду спокойно,” He speaks to the stoic Soldier _. (I’m sure you understand. I won’t quietly.)_

He takes several cautious steps toward him, coming as close as he can. He slowly points the barrel of the silencer under his own chin. The Asset’s eyes gleam for a split second, his head tilting just a fraction. It’s enough of a distraction for the man to unleash a small knife from his left sleeve. He abruptly jerks his arm up in an attack, pointing the gun towards the Soldier at the same time and fires.

Two soft pops echo around the room, followed by the splatter of blood and the shattering of a bullet greeting a skull. A heavy thud plunks on the wooden floorboards, the dark thick flow of red beginning to seep into the designs of the wood. The Soldier looks down at the man on the ground for a moment, his eyes now vacant with life.

The Soldier bends to take the Gerber knife from the former Hydra agent’s slack hand, leaving the body there, as he slips out of the house as soundlessly as he came in. Minutes pass until a vaguely familiar twinge of pain stings through the Soldier’s nerves, down his right arm. With a flare of annoyance rising in his chest he adjusts his course, a vague memory of an old rendezvous point flashing through is mind.

Pressing his steel fingers to a spot on his right shoulder just under the collarbone, he releases a sharp breath. When he pulls his hand away, the sliver is coated in bright red blood. He furiously shoves his right hand through his long hair, frustrated with the strands and the wound the traitor inflected. His palm comes away with another smear of red.

The Soldier ignores the injuries, pushing forward towards the meeting point. He details his surroundings, calculating every small movement, every little noise, his body moving as if his legs were out of his control. He reaches the point, an abandoned building just streets away from the dead man’s home.

He finds his way in, easily climbing steel railings despite the blood oozing out of the wound. He finds that one window, accessible and inconspicuous with no breaks to the glass, slipping inside. Once there, he walks into a smaller room, finding a curved porcelain seat and sinks into it.

He grinds his teeth in irritation as it’s not often he is wounded. Wounds, injuries, are a nuisance, just little blips to slow down a mission that could be handled quickly. He lifts the blade of the knife, pressing it into the gaping hole through his vest. A clenched noise emits from behind the mask for several moments, as the sharp pain sends fire through his veins briefly. The blade sinks easily into the wound, slicing through leather and new flesh, until he feels the solid piece of metal lodged in his shoulder.

He flicks his wrist, the bullet making a tinkering noise as it hits the ground. The Soldier drops his left arm, dropping his head back until it plunks against the wall behind him. Then he waits for his handlers to arrive, reveling in the success of his mission.

 

**Friday, March 18 th, 2012 11:45pm**

Ophelia finally makes it to her door after what she thought would be a normal work day. Pierce had been in meeting after meeting, which required updated policies to be proofread and sent back. It took her working overtime to finish proofing, but then there was a strange fail to the computer systems. On every floor.

She had groaned and thanked her past self for saving the proofs every few minutes. Aggravated, she had marched right down to the IT and Computer Specialists floor to see what in the hell was going on. Carter and half of the department had been absent, long gone by now and probably eating hot dinners at home. It gave Ophelia the privacy she needed to access Carter’s computer, pulling up the programming to the central  control system. Briefly, she pondered if it was just a ruse for Carter to get her to “work her magic” as he liked to call it. However, Carter would’ve been there to gloat, and not be home with his loving husband probably eating pizza or curry. God, she had been hungry.

Finally, after several minutes of pulling up the codes and statistics, she had figured out the problem. She added a few formulas here and there, for future prevention should something like this happening again. Just little back up system to the back up system. She had logged off his computer, then marched right back to her office.

Now, Ophelia rest her forehead against her door for a moment, exhaling. She had finally grabbed food on the way home, eating the tacos in a record pace in her car. All she wanted to do at this very moment was take a bath with some bubbles and open a bottle of wine. She unlocks her door, stumbles into her apartment, noting the time on her clock; 11:46 pm. One of the latest nights she’s had in a while. She closes the door behind her making sure to lock it as she kicks off her heeled boots. She walks through her apartment, turning on the lights as she goes and dropping her purse on the coffee table.

She’s sighs, feeling the weight of the stressful work day ease from her shoulders as she takes off her blazer, tossing it on the couch. She calls for Binks by making clicking noises with her tongue and begins unbuttoning her white blouse. Her cat doesn’t greet her, but usually that means he’s sleeping under his fuzzy blanket tent. By the time her shirt is half open, she already has the bottle of wine in her hand, finding a glass and pouring the red liquid into it. Ophelia makes sure to refill Binks’ food bowl, otherwise he’ll be yelling at her at four in the morning.

She finishes stripping off her shirt, leaving it on the dining table, not caring for the trail of clothes she’s leaving along the way. She adjusts her bra for a moment, cursing underwire and bigger breasts, and the fact that she barely got away with wearing a blue lace bra under that shirt. Grabbing her glass again, she finally makes her way to her room, taking her hair down from the bun she had it in.

Ophelia turns on light of the bathroom, then promptly screams.

The wine glass falls to the floor, shattering across the tile, deep reddish-purple splattering everywhere. Her heart flies to her throat and she grabs the nearest thing she can reach. Which happens to be the hair dryer.

Lounging in the bathtub, or slumped rather, is a man, tall enough that his legs hang over the edge, his toes touching the floor. The man is dressed in black from head to toe, a heavy leather vest over his board, heaving chest. He wears a black mask, something that almost looks like a muzzle that covers the bottom half of his face, as his eyes are covered with what she swears is eye black grease athletes use. His legs are clad in black tactical pants and his feet dawn heavy combat boots. There are thigh holsters on each side holding two knives and a pistol, a utility belt loaded with more weapons and there’s a semi-automatic gun resting next to his hip.

It’s the dark, long sleeve shirt that gets her though, for the left sleeve is gone. The man’s entire left arm, from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers seem to made of metal. The sleek silver gleams dully against the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, a red star imprinted on his shoulder. He same metal hand that is resting in the barrel of the gun.

Everything about this intruder screams  _danger. Turn and run away!_

Except, he slowly lifted his head as Ophelia screamed. His irises are a startling blue, contrasting against his black smudge band around his eyes. A bright blue that belongs in paintings and not in the body of this dark, menacing stranger. His long, dark hair falls around his face, stringy and matted to the left side of his forehead. His eyes look cold, albeit tired, exhausted, and it’s then that Ophelia notices the man is injured.

There’s a decent sized cut on his forehead and a small hole in his leather vest in his right shoulder. Blood is seeping out of the wound, racing down his torso, catching in the bizarre straps across the vest. There’s a moment of sympathetic instinct that takes over Ophelia, wanting to help the man and tend to his injuries, or at least call 911. Because maybe, just maybe, he is a victim, just like she- No. He broke into her home, he’s armed. He looks dangerous and her fight or flight response is finally kicking in. Fight. It’s always fight with her.

“Who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here!?” Ophelia demands, raising her menacing weapon of the hair dryer.

The man just blinks at her, as if he’s bored. He’s loaded with weapons. In retrospect, shouting at this sinister looking man probably wasn’t the best way to go about the situation. Ophelia’s eyes drop to the broken glass and she drops the dryer, opting for the sharp pointed stem of the broken wine glass instead.

“Fine. I’m calling the cops,” She hopes that by threatening the authorities arrival that this man won’t harm her.

With her free hand, she reaches into her pocket pulling out her phone. The man shifts, then abruptly her phone is knocked out of her hand. Ophelia looks at the counter behind her, her phone lying there with the screen black, the glass shattered beyond repair with tiny curls of smoke emitting from it. Because he threw a knife at her, at  _it_. He threw a fucking knife at her phone. She’s about to panic, when she realizes said knife is on now on the counter. That was stupid on his part. She picks it up, now armed with a real weapon to defend herself. Grant, it’s a knife to a gun fight if it happens to go that route.

He remains stoic, despite her pointing his own weapon at him. Besides her phone, he hasn’t moved to attack her. Not even aiming his gun at her. Her eyes focus on his bleeding form once more, briefly and wildly wondering if this man isn’t truly dangerous, but scared. He’s wounded. Maybe he’s hiding.

Ophelia sighs, lowering her arms but keeps the knife at the ready.  _Alright, think._ A strange, murderous looking man has broken into her apartment and is currently bleeding out in her bathtub. He just threw a knife at her phone, so she can’t call for help. He hasn’t shot her yet and didn’t even nick her hand with the blade; not even the slightest bit of skin. Skin exposed and on display.

With an internal start, Ophelia realizes she’s shirtless. Because of course life-threatening moments like this happen in embarrassing situations. She rolls her eyes so hard it gives her a headache. She understands how vulnerable she might seem to him but again, the man hasn’t acted upon it yet. With that in mind, and the continuously bleeding wounds, she makes her decision.

Granted, probably the stupidest decision she has ever made.

“Fuck me,” Ophelia grumbles under her breath. “Fuck it all, I’ll probably end up dying because I can’t leave well enough alone.” She raises the knife once more, jabbing it in the air, “Don’t move. You’re hurt and I’m going to help you. I’ll be right back.”

She slowly and carefully backs out of her bathroom, trying to avoid stepping on glass with her bare feet. The man’s blue eyes follow her movement until she can’t see them anymore. She hurries to the kitchen, grabbing her heavy duty first aid kit from the cabinet, then runs back to her room. She quickly pulls on a tank top, searches for the her sewing kit she knows she has, then slips on her sandals.

When she enters the bathroom, the man hasn’t moved, save for his head tilted back again. She lays her supplies out across the counter top, keeping her body half turned towards him. She opens the first kit, shifting through supplies until she gathers what she needs. Anti-septic wipes, small and large gauze pads, wrappings, medical tape, butterfly band aids. Tweezers, because she’s pretty sure that’s a bullet wound in his shoulder and grabs the bottle of alcohol from under the sink.

“I swear to God if you end up stabbing me,” She mutters as she sits on the edge of the tub.

Other than just tilting his head to watch her with expressionless eyes, the man remains still. She swallows her fear but lets the skills her mother taught her years ago take over. Glancing down she assesses the amount of blood he’s already lost, finding the cause of his shoulder wound. A small bullet coated in thick blood lays on the bottom of the tub. It’s a clear sign that the bullet had been lodged into the joint of his shoulder.

Going by the smaller knife next to the bullet as well, he definitely dug out the bullet himself. Ophelia reaches above the toilet to grab a smaller towel, folding it so when she presses it to the wound, the blood won’t soak through immediately. However, she can’t really d anything to help him if he doesn’t remove his vest. Or that mask.

“What’s your name?” She attempts as calmly as she can. Despite it, she can hear the shakiness in her own voice.

For the first time, his blue eyes flash with what she thinks is confusion. He doesn’t speak, but his eyebrows twitch down minutely. It was a strange reaction, but not one she’s hasn’t seen before. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.

“Okay then,” She utters, moving slowly holding up the towel. “Um.  _Cuál es su nombre_?”

Nothing. “ _Come ti chiami_?”

Again, nothing. So, not Spanish or Italian then. Maybe French.

“Uh,  _comment vous appelez-vou_?”

Nothing. “Come ti chiami?”

Again, nothing. So, not Spanish or Italian then. Maybe French.

“Uh,  _comment vous appelez-vou_?”

Silence.

“Never mind. Hold this to your shoulder,” She instructs anyway, shaking the towel. She goes to press it against his wound, but his left hand tightens on the gun. “Right. Sorry. You do it.” She leans back dropping the towel. “But I’m cleaning the one on your head.”

She points to her own forehead, then his and makes a show of dabbing the gauze she picked up. For some reason, he allows her to do this. Although the voice in the back of her mind is screaming how stupid and dangerous this is. Using the anti-septic wipes, she gently wipes away the blood from his temple, careful not to touch his skin. Vaguely, she thinks if she says her name maybe he’ll truly realize she’s just trying to help him. She warily eyes the gun every few seconds.

“I’m Oph- Affie. My name is Affie,” She tells him, deciding to supply the rare nickname only her family knows. He doesn’t respond, but she didn’t think he would. She does notice the blood has run down his face, spreading along the edge of the mask. “Can I…can you, uh, take this off? It’ll be easier.”

He just stares at her for a long, tense moment. She taps her chin to insinuate his mask. His eyes flash again, but his metal hand slowly releases the gun, his fingers hooking around the edge of the mask, pulling it off. It clatters to the bottom of the tub, the noise overly loud in the silence between them.

The slightest whisper of familiarity echoes in the back of her mind, but she can’t place it. The man has a strong jaw, dusted with stubble and chapped pink lips. He looks,  _young_ , possibly around the same age as Ophelia. She forgets the feeling of familiarity, continuing to wipe the blood off his cheekbone. Some of it has already dried, flaking off into the gauze.

“This can be marked down as the strangest night in my life,” She murmurs, clearly just talking to calm her nerves.

She sees something move out of the corner of her eye, and for a split moment, she thinks it could be another intruder. Except it’s not. It’s Binks, who looks like he has been sitting in the doorway since she entered the bathroom again. He flicks his tail, relaxed composure, which she finds out of character. Binks isn’t too fond of strange men being in their home.

Ophelia focuses on the task at hand, throwing the red soak wipe away and grabbing a new one along with a gauze pad. She presses it to the cut, attempting to stop the bleeding, which strangely has seemed to slow down already. Once she’s cleaned the cut, she opens the butterfly band aid, carefully placing it over the wound. She uses three.

“One Down, another one which requires you to be shirtless, to go,” She clears her throat awkwardly. “This, um, needs to come off. For me to help you.”

His blue eyes shift to her again, narrowing just slightly.

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me,” She informs him gently.

Gently? She probably has a hitman for the Italian mob or something bleeding in her damn bathtub and she’s speaking to him softly? All she wanted to do tonight was soak in said tub and go to bed. Ophelia bites her lip, thinking.

“Alright. I’m going across the hallway to call 911 then. They’ll help you better than I can,” She throws away the scrapes of the band-aids, standing from the edge of the tub.
    
    
    “нет.”

The curt voice makes her stop. It’s the first word he’s said to her, and she’s 100% sure it was Russian. She is also 100% sure he understood every word she has been saying. Slowly, she sits back down on the ledge, not wanting to anger this man, in case his clam demeanor abruptly changes.

“Then allow me to help you,” Ophelia insists, keeping conviction in her voice. “I’d really rather not deal with a stranger bleeding out in my bathtub tonight.”

When his eyes meet hers, there a hint of something there. As if she said something that was furthest from the truth. Slowly, his eyes warily roam over her face, down her body, and back up, as if he sees  _her_  as a threat. Ophelia keeps her ground, clenching her teeth to keep her jaw strong, confident. She meets his stare, not blinking in hopes to show him that she isn’t a threat at all.

This whole night is odd.

Finally, the man’s metal hand smeared with his blood, tilts his gun sideways until the length of it rest on the bottom of the tub, barrel point away from them. He hadn’t moved his right arm much, besides throwing that knife at her, but he does now and with it, a fresh pump of thick blood oozes out.

Over his shoulders and across his chest is a strange looking holster that he unclips, letting it hang to the sides. His vest, upon a closer look, oddly reminds Ophelia of a modern straight jacket, minus the actual restraining sleeves and chains. There are seven faux straps that secure the vest, as he pops each button open, tugging down the right side of it to reveal the wound.

The bullet tore a hole in the man’s under shirt, however it isn’t wide enough for Ophelia to do anything. She reaches for the small scissors in the kit, until she hears a small ripping sound bringing her focus back to him. He tore a bigger hole in his shirt, the bullet wound on full display. Despite the thick pluses of blood pumping from it, the surrounding area of the wound looks clean. Whoever shot at this man knew what they were doing.

Ophelia grits her teeth closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Her stomach churns and she can taste the bitter sting of bile in her throat. She’s seen gruesome pictures of every type of wound when her sister was going to nursing school, as she would excitedly show Ophelia. Seeing it up close and personal is on a whole different level.

Swallowing thickly a few times and steeling her stomach, she opens her eyes once more. She grabs a bigger, thicker towel from under her sink – a red one- fold it and goes to put it over the wound. She hesitates, half considering to just risk it and call the EMTs.

“You do not have to,” The man speaks again. Despite the low volume of his voice, Ophelia jumped when the silence was broken.

“I-“ She exhales shakily, briefly glancing at him. “I can’t not- you’re bleeding in my home. I’m helping.”

Ophelia finally presses the towel over the wound, adding as much pressure as she can. Her muscles shake a little with her own body weight, moving one hand to the back of his shoulder to press on either side. From the corner of her eye she sees his jaw twitch, his shoulders tensing but he doesn’t make a sound.

“I think it, um, I think it needs stitches,” She tells him nervously. “Once the bleeding is under control I can-“

“No.”

“No?”

When her eyes snap back to his, his gaze had hardened, turned icy; a warning. Ophelia huffs, thinking she should probably keep her mouth shut if she doesn’t want her own wound bullet hole. Several minutes pass in tense silence, to which her damn cat had decided to get more curious and hop onto the tub’s ledge. Binks gracefully walks along the tub until he is right next to the man’s metal arm.

Ophelia glares in warning at her cat as he literally head bumps the man’s shoulders. Binks, of course, ignores her or any other cat self-preservation, and puts his paw on his silver shoulder, sniffing the man’s hair. Then, stunning his owner completely, Binks rubs his head against the man’s jaw.

Making a short  _psst_  sound through her teeth, Ophelia tries shooing her cat away. The man lifts his metal arm, making her heart clench in fear because for a moment she thinks he will take her cat and chuck him across the room. Instead, he pats Binks on the head twice then gently pushes him away. Binks begins to purr as the man repeats the motion, until her damn curious cat takes the hints.

Binks decides he’s bothered the man enough, and finally jumps off the tub, leaving the room. Ophelia shakes her head in disbelief, adding the most amount of pressure to the wound once more. She refocuses, counts to sixty seconds in her head, then ever so slowly removes the towel slightly to check. Only a light trickle of blood escapes, much better than earlier, but it still needs stitches, as she’s sure it’ll starting bleeding again.

She carefully folds the towel in on itself, dropping it into the trashcan to take care of later. Some of his blood had soaked through the cloth and onto her fingers. Ophelia grabs another towel, pressing it to the wound.

“Hold this there,” She instructs quietly as she gets up to wash her hands.

Once she does that, she gathers several of the big gauze pads, layering them together. She sits back on the tub, the man silently removing the towel, allowing her to place the gauze over the small gaping hole. Quickly she grabs the medical tape as she leaves the gauze on his shoulder, tearing several pieces off. Once all edges of the gauze are taped, Ophelia takes the wrappings out of the package. She works quickly, thankful for volunteering as her sister’s mock patient while she was in school.

Where the bullet entered the man’s body is right between his clavicle and humorous bone. It makes it a little easier to wrap, although having to weave the roll of wrapping through the vest was a little difficult. Ophelia leans back the second she’s finished, feeling proud that this man didn’t go into shock in her bathroom.

“Finished,” She announces, gathering the bloody wipes, and trash. She throws it all away wanting to deal with it later. She meets the man’s eyes once more.

He looks at the dressings, then back to her, his eyes flashing again. She swears he looks confused, curious even, but it’s gone in a split second so she couldn’t be sure.

“Um, you should probably eat something. Drink some water, or- I think I have some soda,” Ophelia stands, opening another packet of anti-septic wipes to clean her hands again. “You lost a good amount of blood, eating will put the sugars back in your body.”

The man stays silent, just lifting his metal hand to touch over the gauze. Ophelia nods, feeling as if her luck is running out. She’s so, incredibly curious, but the fear she had been ignoring is slowly rising to the surface. This man is still dangerous. He is still a threat.

“I’ll just…” She swallows the lump in her throat again starting to back away “I’ll get you an apple and water, maybe the soda.”

She continues backing up, keeping her eyes on the man, even if he isn’t looking at her. The second she doesn’t see him, she briskly walks to her kitchen. She grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, a bottle of water and a can of coke from the fridge. She also carefully takes that frying pan she had knocked her ex out with just a week ago. It saved her then, maybe it can save her now.

Ophelia notices Binks sitting on her bed, staring out the window as she enters her room. When she cautiously steps back into the bathroom, she halts. The tub is empty. She places the items in her hands on the counter, holding the frying pan up like a shield. She peeks her head out the door, scanning her room.

There aren’t many places to hide, even her closet is too small. He didn’t leave the room to follow her to the kitchen, which would’ve been a good plan to jump her then. But she was only gone for several seconds, and she would like to think that she would’ve heard him.

Narrowing her eyes at her cat, who is still staring out the window, Ophelia cautiously moves forward. The latch of her window is unlocked, which is probably how this whole situation happened in the first place. She peers outside, expecting to see a glimmer or flash of that strange silver arm. Instead she sees nothing but her breath fogging up the glass. She lowers the pan, her shoulders dropping. A strange emptiness settles throughout her apartment.

Like a ghost in the night, the man is gone. Just like that.


	7. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of blood. Language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-uploaded this chapter because something got mixed up the first time.  
> Sorry it took so long!

**March 19th, 2012 12:40am**

An irritate huff breaks the chilly quiet of the night. The Soldier stumbles into a wall, leaning his weight on it as he presses his metal fingers roughly against his temple. That sharp pain zings through his head again as he rapidly blinks away the image of green eyes. Grinding his teeth, he clenches his fist slamming it into the concrete wall. It cracks under the weight of the metal, pieces of rubble sprinkling to the ground.

He has successfully completed the mission; one Hydra traitor down. The success does not change the obvious fact that the man had been waiting for the Soldier. The man was prepared and slightly quicker.  _Slightly_. It was enough for that damn bullet to lodge in his shoulder.

Shaking his head roughly, the Soldier grips at his hair, the mask clutched between his fingers of his flesh hand. Why had he remembered the building that was no longer a rendezvous point? Why did he recognize the fifth-floor window? It was all a blur to him, images twisting in his brain in a chaotic whirl. The carousel of colors halts abruptly, landing on shades of green.

Enough of this. The Soldier gathers his bearings, grits his teeth and straightens up. He squeezes the hard material of the mask in his hand before he lifts it to his face. The moment the temple tip touches his skin, he pauses. He doesn’t feel the hard press of plastic. He doesn’t see the pitch-black road ahead of him. He doesn’t smell the wet pavement, the trees in the distance, nor the lingering metallic scent of blood.

The plastic of his mask fades into something softer, warmer. The press of textured cotton, of warm fingertips just grazing along bloodied skin. It’s something he can’t ever remember feeling.

_Gentle?_

The shades of green in his mind morphs into the shape of eyes. Eyes that stared at him wide with fear, yet with an underlying but a strange emotion he can’t recall ever seeing before.

_Concern?_

The smell of sharp sweat and copper blood fades into an aromatic scent of wildflowers, overtaken by the earthy tone of ripe grapes and spices. The Soldier doesn’t think he has smelled anything like it before. It wasn’t the dark drink that stained the floor, it wasn’t the sweat on his skin, the blood on his vest. It was something else entirely.

_Sweet?_

Her. It’s the woman he sees in his mind. The gentle touch of her dressings, the concern in her jade colored eyes, the sweetness lingering on her body. Who was she?  _Who is she_? A former handler? A scientist? Doctor?

His head twitches. No. No handler has ever showed him what she had tonight. It was foreign, not proper protocol for the people who surrounded him before and after missions. She was different. She was afraid, yet threatening, if pathetically so.

He does remember the involuntary pull of his mouth when the woman held up a device; it was comical. Watching her try to defend herself with a piece of plastic. When she had gotten ahold of the knife he threw, brandishing his own weapon at him, he felt a spike of intrigue in his chest. She wasn’t stupid. She knew how to defend herself. It sparked a vaguely familiar tickle in his mind. The woman had only turned her back to him once, clearly knowing it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

He recalls her clearly. Startled with his intrusion, frozen in a spout of terror, bare torso with the blue lace undergarment, on display. He had assessed her quickly when she entered the room after his eyes adjusted to the light. The woman wasn’t too thin, he could see that from the subtle toned muscles in her arms, when her legs shifted.

It has been too long since the Soldier had viewed a female openly like that. The curves of her body, the set in her jaw, the trembling of her fingers, the rise and fall of her breath expanding her cheat and lean stomach.

Her skin was marked, a map of freckles on his inner arm inked together to match a constellation. When she turned, her spine revealed scripted words along the length, and a sketched small bird on her left shoulder. A little dove. It was the sickly display of discoloration on the right set of her ribs that did not match the permanent ink. A mark stating injury, a reminder of pain, hurt. The sight made his chest tighten, made something hot curl in his gut.

The Soldier replaces his mask, fastening the rubber ends behind his head. The mission is finished, the incident in the once vacant building, over. He continues, heading toward the area he hid his motorcycle at. Once he finds it, tearing off the dry brush he used to disguise it, he mounts the seat, kicking the stand back.

A distorted image abruptly flashes through the forefront of his mind. His body goes rigid as the pictures piece itself together. A black cat with a scarred leg. A man attacking a woman, the man shoving the woman, the woman’s right side connecting with unforgiving granite.

Track and report mission. It was during that night where he viewed the disturbance from across the way. The Soldier makes the connection; the woman from that night and the woman cleaning his wounds are the same. He recognized that fifth floor window.  _He remembered._

He winces as the throbbing pain makes itself know in his temples. The imaged fades almost as quickly as it came. His breath escapes in short pants as he gathers himself once more.

“What the hell,” He grumbles, rubbing his hand across his forehead.

With the movement he’s reminded of his wound burning in his shoulder. The wrappings. The dressings around his shoulder the gentle woman provided him. He quickly unfastens the vest, finds the material, ripping it off with one tugging jerk. He disposes of the stained gauze and tape on the side of the road, kicking as much dirt as he can on it. They cannot find the wrappings of his wound, it would raise suspicions. They might come looking for the kind woman who helped the Soldier. He briefly touches his left hand to the bullet hole.

Starting the engine of the bike with more strength than it requires, the Soldier shakes his head once more. Simultaneously, he wants to rid the images yet hold onto the gentle caress of the woman’s touch just a little longer. He doesn’t recall ever having kindness shown to him. He is the Soldier, their Asset.

He drives back to the base. The ever-growing dread of what awaits him settles in his chest. No kindness for the Soldier.

*

“Sometimes I wonder why we even use it.”

“The job gets done, shapes the course for the next path. Who cares if the Asset is injured in the process?”

“What’s the next mission?”

“The Congressman. It’s been a week since the last recon.”

“And the boss? What are his orders?”

“The Asset has only been out of Cryo for several hours. The absolute longest without a wipe is eight days before the memories begin to leak through. Unless it’s mission critical, the boss doesn’t allow for missions longer than a week.”

“This plan with the Congressman could go on for weeks on end. How is it-“

“The set up has already begun behind the scenes. That reporter wasn’t placed there by accident.”

“Ahh, feed the sleeping monster, so to speak.”

“Exactly.”

The voice pass by the room, however the next set of footsteps grow closer. Bernstein hears them coming, hurriedly replacing the wires and closing out the coding box on the computer screen. He turns in his chair just in time to see the door open, the Soldier entering with two armed guards behind him.

“Agent Bernstein prep him but wait on the wipe. The dog got itself injured,” A dark mocking chuckle escapes the burly Handler stepping into the room. “The doctor is on his way.”

He jumps into action, knowing better to follow orders quickly than to linger. He waits for the Soldier to settle in the seat, his dark hair obstructing the right side of his face. Since the doctors aren’t present in the room, it’s his job to place the small Electroencephalogram pads against the man’s temples to monitor recent brain activity. He moves to do just take, cautiously pushing aside the Soldier’s hair.

Agent Bernstein pauses. There’s a five-inch cut breaking the skin on the man’s forehead, a trickle of blood has dried on his skin. It’s not the discovery of the cut itself that made Bernstein stop short. It’s the two strips of butterfly band-aids holding the cut together that do.

He hasn’t been a part of Hydra for long, but he’s positive the Soldier has never returned with bandages place neatly and carefully over his cuts. Bernstein swallows thickly, coming to a quick realization. Someone spotted the Soldier. Someone found him, someone had the nerves of steel to get close enough to take care of the cut.

Upon a closer look at the Soldier’s bare torso, a small gaping bullet hole displays itself on his shoulder. This too, looks like it’s been cleaned, no recent streams of blood, or even dried flakes. He swears the tiny gray markings over his shoulder are from the residue of medical tape.

Without even thinking about it, Bernstein hurriedly removes the strips from the Soldier’s forehead, wincing slightly as the movement tugs the cut back open. Steely blue, murderous eyes snap to his face before they drop to see the strips Bernstein holds between his fingers.

His heart races in fear, thinking the man will lash out, grab him by the neck and throw him across the room like he’s seen before. Instead, the Soldier reacts queerly. His jaw shifts, his eyes close briefly, his nostrils flaring.

All signs the Agent takes as the Soldier forgetting about the strips. He shoves the band-aids inside his lab coat pocket as the Soldier eyes land on him once more. The menacing stare is back, a silent threat. Bernstein remains quiet, finally placing the pads against each temple.

That’s when the doctor’s step in, and Bernstein steps back, turning towards the computers. His mind is racing as he brings up the tampered system, pondering who in their right mind would take pity on the poor man in the chair, and dress his wounds. How did they even meet in the first place? Before or after the confirmed murder of a former agent?

Whoever it may be, the optimistic part of Bernstein’s brain hopes this person will continue to help the Soldier. Maybe, just maybe, they can save this controlled, tortured man’s soul.

With that in mind, he turns on the machine with the go ahead, praying that his secret, risky decoding of the system will work.

*****

The night stretches on, minutes pass by as Ophelia stands frozen in her room. Silence fills her ears, listening to any little noise she might pick up. She has been staring at the window for god knows how long now, utterly and completely bewildered, now that her adrenaline has worn off and her “good Samaritan” trait is over.

There was a stranger in her home. A dangerous, threatening stranger, who broke into her apartment and decided to bleed out in her bathtub. He could have easily thrown that knife through her chest, could have easily killed her and no one would know until Monday. He had plenty of opportunity to harm her, given how close and vulnerable she had made herself.

She had been shirtless; bra and bruises on display. For some reason, that’s the thought that snaps Ophelia out of her shell-shocked brain. She shoves her fingers through her hair, her body still trembling slightly.

No, that strange man dressed in black with that weird muzzle mask did not kill her, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to continue standing there waiting for him to double back. Ophelia quickly locks the latch of the window, then moves to grab her duffel bag from her closet. She stuffs in the first pair of leggings and t-shirt she can find, grabs her phone charger before realizing she clearly doesn’t need it, then heads to the bathroom.

There she stops dead once more, the wide streak and splattered bits of blood vividly standing out against the white porcelain of the tub. It’s a morbid kind of display, one she doesn’t want to focus on too much. Forcing herself to move again, she turns on the shower, hoping most of the spray will wash away the evidence.

 _Evidence_. Shit! What if that man committed a crime and she just- no. No. She’s not going to think about it. She just needs to get out of her home, since it no longer feels safe. Not with her ex finding her, and then this crazy incident.

Ophelia grabs what she needs, shoving it into the bag. She turns off the water after adjusting the spray to rinse all the blood away. She figures she’ll just deep clean tomorrow, given that she doesn’t want to sleep here tonight.

Finally, she grabs Binks, who mewls in protest, storms through her living room to grab her purse and keys and heads out the door. She locks it, a nagging voice in the back of her telling her it’s useless to do so anyway.

Her cat squirms in her arm as she hurriedly runs down the five flights of stairs. Forgetting all about how exhausted she was just an hour ago, she makes it to her car parked just several feet away. Binks nearly scratches her as she dumps him in the passenger seat, clearly distress by her actions.

Ophelia drives for five minutes before she even realizes she doesn’t know where she’s going. She can’t drive to her sister’s, given that Saige is an overnight in-house nurse. She doesn’t want to worry or stress her father out this late at night. Then it clicks. She knows who to go to.

She’s not completely rude, has enough awareness to find a payphone and call before she arrives. She’s given consent, and Ophelia parks her car in the driveway of the small suburban home. She takes her bag, and Binks, glaring annoyingly at her, and runs up to the door. She knocks five times.

The door opens to reveal Carter’s concerned face, his shoulders shagging when he sees her. He quickly lets her in, opening his mouth to ask.

“Bathroom?” Ophelia asks before he can say anything. “Binks’ is stressed enough.”

“Cat room, remember?” Carter reminds her kindly, pointing down the hall. “Sweeney is in there, but they like each other.”

She nods, scratching behind her cat’s ears to calm him.

Once she returns, Ophelia collapses on the couch. She remains still for just a moment, before she shoots back up, pacing. She can feel Carter’s eyes on her, his worry palpable. His husband suddenly comes out of the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hand and passes it to Ophelia.

“Thanks, Jeremy,” She mumbles, halting her steps. The warmth of the mug helps relax her. “I’m so sorry to barge like this on you guys.”

“Please, Fawkes,” Carter scoffs, “You aren’t a burden.”

“I just-“ She sighs, bringing the mug of tea closer to her, inhaling the scent. “I don’t want to stay at my place tonight.”

It’s not that she’s scared per say, more like she doesn’t know who else could just break in. Maybe the man with the weapons and muzzle and those piercing blue eyes will return. She mentally shakes her head. She can’t seem to get the man’s eyes out of her mind. They were the least dangerous thing about him.

“Is this…” Jeremy speaks up quietly, “about Isaac?”

Ophelia, about to take a sip from the tea, freezes. “What?”

“About his release?”

Fear clenches her heart, and she absolutely hates that her body still reacts like that. Slowly, she carefully lowers the mug, placing it on the coffee table. Her ribs throb at her side, bringing her hand up to holding them.

“What?” Her voice sounds breathless in her ears. “He-he’s out of jail?”

“This evening,” Carter answers cautiously, meeting his husband’s eyes briefly. “Jere saw him leaving the courthouse after work.”

Ophelia stares absently at the wall behind them. Her skin prickles hotly, her blood beginning to rush in her ears. She doesn’t understand how, why. The police filed it as domestic violence with a deadly weapon, as Ophelia defending herself from her crazy ex. They promised her she didn’t have to testify, and he would be processed and locked up for good. What a bunch of bullshit.

“Hey, honey, why don’t you sit down,” Carter gentle coaxes. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Is her autopilot response. When she shakes herself back, she’s now on the couch. “Really, Carter. I’m fine, thank you. I just, was caught off guard. I-“

Ophelia pauses. They’re going to ask questions if it wasn’t Isaac she was running from, then who? Right. She can’t drag them into the events of what happened tonight.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but yes,” She lies smoothly, leaning forward to grab the mug once more. She takes a long drink, the tea still warm enough to slight sting her throat. “Um, you if you both don’t mind, I’m exhausted.”

“Oh course! How rude of us,” Jeremy chirps, slightly smacking Carter on the arm. “The guest room is ready for you. Sleep in as long as you’d like tomorrow.”

She nods as Jeremy hurries away, muttering about doubling checking the towels in the bathroom. Carter moves next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It clicks then, that she never told him what happened a week ago. She winces at the realization that she didn’t hide it as well as she thought.

“How did you know?” Ophelia whispers, gripping the mug.

Carter exhales slowly. “Lipstick can’t hide a cut, sweetheart.”

Fantastic. Maybe her expertise of covering up those marks has gotten rusty. Isn’t that a fucked up thing to be annoyed by.

“Ophelia, get out of your head,” Her friend coaxes firmly. “He’s not going to hurt you anymore. We won’t let that happened. Didn’t you file a restraining order?”

“That doesn’t do anything to stop anyone, Carter,” She responds. She shakes her, considering his words. He’s right. She shouldn’t be in her head, and Isaac will not get near her. She hopes, bitterly.

Abruptly, Ophelia smiles at him. “But you’re right. He won’t get near me. Let’s just drop it.” She stands, taking one last sip of the tea, thankful of its calming effect. “I’m just going to sleep now.”

“Yeah,” Carter says with a frown, taking the mug when she hands it to him.

“Thank you again, Carter. I really appreciate this.”

Then she leans over to give him a brief hug. He returns the favor. She’s halfway to the hall when he stops her.

“Why did you call from a payphone?” He inquires curiously.

Ophelia can’t stop her spine from going rigid. Flashes of those blue eyes, vacant and curious, of the red staining the tub, of the knife shattering her phone, zing through her mind. She turns, nonchalantly waving her hand.

“Dropped it from the fire escape. Landed face down and shattered. Completely ruined,” She smile, as if it’s no big deal.

“Klutz,” Carter chuckles.

Ophelia nods, bids goodnight, then collects Binks to go into the guest room.

*

Sleeping in did not happen for Ophelia. In fact, sleeping didn’t really happen at all. She could barely close her eyes, and when she did, she didn’t see the knife or guns that mysterious man had. Instead, she saw the familiar fist of her ex, saw the rage in his eyes, the snarl on his lips.

The one time she did drift off, she dreamt of blood-stained fingers, gleaming metal, a plastic muzzle. In her dream, _nightmare_ , she had been staring at herself in the mirror of her bathroom, that black muzzle over her own face. She tried to rip it off, screaming behind it to get it off. She had looked back at the mirror and standing behind her was the man with the blue eyes.

The color resembles more like frosted ice in her dream, as they stared back at her. Slowly, the expression in his eyes turned dark, before his metal arm shot out. Just as he was about to grab her neck, Ophelia woke with a start, sweating damping her hair.

She opted to turn on the TV instead, Binks snoozing with his paws up in the air next to her. She finds an old comedic movie, watching it until she drifts off to sleep once more towards the end.

 

**March 19th, 2012 8:45am**

When Ophelia wakes up, it’s with the groggy sense of her not sleeping well, despite the two hours she did get. She forces herself up, carful not to disturb her sleeping cat, and takes a shower. The hot water stings her skin, but she stares at the floor, wondering if she had rinsed all the blood off her own.

A delicious smell of varies breakfast foods greets her as she entered the kitchen. Bacon, French toast, eggs, fruits and muffins are all sitting on the table in the dining room. A full pot of coffee is already brewed, and there’s syrup, whipped cream and powdered sugar on the table as well.

“Christ,” Ophelia says as a greeting, “is this what you wake up to everyday, Hines? If so, I’m moving in.”

Carter bristles happily, unwrapping himself from Jeremy’s back as his husband continues to cook. He grabs the pot of coffee, filling up the three mugs set aside.

“Most days,” Carter beams. “He is a chef after all.”

“Gotta come here more often,” She mumbles, gratefully taking the mug he slides over. She takes a seat at the table. “Jeremy, you didn’t have to do this.”

“First of all, missy, I thought you were sleeping in,” He responds. “Second, the perfect was to distress is a hearty breakfast.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” She shrugs, spooning on eggs, bacon and toast onto her plate. “No, it wasn’t the bed. I just couldn’t seem to is all.”

She misses the shared look the men give each other. She bites into the French toast, moaning dramatically. “Jeremy, will you marry me?”

“Of course, darling.”

“Both of you get out,” Carter mockingly pouts. “Too early for this.”

For the next hour, Ophelia forgets why she’s there in the first place. The mysterious man with the captivating eyes, silenced behind a mask.

***********************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little summary/teaser. I will start posting chapters in November. I just wanted to give a little preview.  
> <3
> 
> (I named the ofc Ophelia Phoenix for a reason.)


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